


The Whole Town Feels Sad

by HelloDoctorMorphine



Series: Pop Punk Kids AU [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Closeted Character, College, Coming Out, High School, M/M, Suburbia, what is now referred to as the shitty pop punk kids AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2424530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloDoctorMorphine/pseuds/HelloDoctorMorphine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Pete moves back in after dropping out from DuPaul, the entire neighborhood seems fucking pissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whole Town Feels Sad

**Author's Note:**

> This was mostly born out of my being a pathetic, pop punk piece of shit, and having to share my stereotype with the rest of you. This is how we actually behave, and we all are terrible, horrible people. Underage warning for a consensual relationship between a legal adult and a minor. No beta, I apologize for mistakes, title from 'Suburbia' by The Wonder Years. Enjoy.

When the Pete moves back in after dropping out from DuPaul, the entire neighborhood seems fucking pissed.

 

Patrick has vague memories of the oldest child in the Wentz house being an asshole from when he was younger, of seeing him setting tripwires around the neighborhood and throwing rocks at passing cars and jumping out at old ladies during their afternoon walks. In the last sixth months before he left for Chicago to study, he started wearing this weird-ass horse mask at the same time, and he almost got sent to the psych ward for that one.

And then Patrick would see him in the middle of those summer nights, laying on a sleeping bag on his roof, staring sadly at the stars.

Patrick was thirteen, and was wondering if, at eighteen, he’d be as lonely as the Wentz boy down the street.

Two days after the Wentz boy left, Mrs. Wentz came over to have coffee with Patrick’s mom. As Patrick had walked into the kitchen after school, Mrs. Wentz waved at him, saying, “Patrick? I have some things for you. Pete left some CDs back home, and he said you might like them, so…”

Patrick frowns, wondering how the Wentz boy would have even known whether he’d like something or not, but he took the CDs anyways. 

 

Patrick spent those next few months poring over the CDs. Dookie. Sticks and Stones. All Killer, No Filler. Ocean Avenue. Enema Of The State.

In hindsight, Patrick can smile sadly, know that Pete was trying to suck him into the same music so he wouldn’t have to be alone.

But those next few months were an epiphany, like something Patrick didn’t even know he was missing had been found.

Patrick wanted to thank the Wentz boy, until he realized that the Wentz boy was gone.

 

Joe is an asshole.

Patrick’s absolutely convinced that Joe jumped into modern times from the music video for My Friends Over You. He always seems to either be cradling a guitar or a box of pizza, he constantly asks how his beard-to-chest-hair ratio is (nonexistent), and he will always try and bum a cigarette off someone.

Patrick had seen Joe at the Borders in town - before Borders went out of business - but hadn’t met him until he saw him at a Taking Back Sunday show in Chicago (real Chicago, not any of this suburbia bullshit). They had recognized each other, spent the whole show next to each other, and stayed friends after that.

Except now, Joe’s no longer optimistic and bright-eyed, and instead, smokes weed, listens to Man Overboard too much, and constantly tells Patrick about how girls don’t like him.  
Man O has to be telling him that. Has to be. Besides, his opinions of girls are too nice for him to be influenced by The Story So Far.

 

Andy has a red beard, and tattoos, and likes to stand on a metaphorical soapbox a little too much, and the first time Patrick met him, he had to convince himself that Andy wasn’t Glenview’s version of Matty Mullins. 

First of all, the one Andrew Hurley is way more educated and considerate than Matty Mullins.

But it does make Patrick uncomfortable when he sees Andy in his khaki shorts and flannel, standing in doorways and handing out pamphlets about animal cruelty. 

It’s not because he doesn’t support animal cruelty, so much as it’s about how Patrick knows, deep down, that Andy’s doing more with his life than Patrick ever will. 

 

The first day after Pete comes back, Pete visits Patrick. 

Patrick’s mildly (very) surprised, since Patrick’s only ever been the kid that gets hand-me-down CDs, posters, and merch from Pete, as opposed to Pete’s brother, Andrew.

Patrick’s home alone, listening to The Wonder Years, finishing algebra homework, and feeling pathetic as all hell, when he hears the doorbell ring. 

He stops the album, pausing Soupy Campbell’s emotional rant about the local bowling alley and cigarette burns, and goes to answer.

Pete’s wearing a worn crewneck with bite marks in the cuffs, black hair ironed straight and a little windblown in the October breeze, hint of eyeliner cruddy and smudged. He’s holding a plate of brownies, the squares a little too perfect. His mom must have made them.

He smiles, and it’s crooked, sad. Defeated. 

With forced cheeriness, he says, “hey, Patrick! Um… My mom made these for you. Can I come in?”

Patrick nods, straightens his beanie, and moves his body out of the doorway. “Yeah, come in.”

Pete digs a little more into his smile. “I like your shirt, by the way. I saw State Champs a couple months ago, they’re so sick live.”

“The July show? I was there,” Patrick says, closing the door behind Pete. 

“Really? I didn’t see you,” Pete frowns. “Hey, uh, where can I put these?”

“Oh, uh, kitchen,” Patrick says, walking to said room, the older boy trailing behind him. “Hey, how’ve you been?”

Pete shrugs as he puts the plate of brownies down, a soft clink against the counter. “I’ve been… I’ve been eh. How about you?”

Patrick shrugs. He hasn’t seen Pete since he came back for Christmas break, what’s he supposed to say? “Uh… Okay? I dunno. It’s just Glenview here.”

Pete laughs, half amused, half bitter. “I get that.”

He looks down at his beat up sneakers, shoulders sagging, and Patrick frowns. “Do you… Do you…” He sighs. “Lemme word this better. Do you want to go up to my room? I’ve got   
The Wonder Years playing. It… It sounds like you could use a friend?”

Pete laughs. “All of us could use friends.”

“Wentz.”

Pete nods, laughing, but this time, it’s a split between a chuckle and a dry sob. “I’d like a friend.”

 

It becomes a tradition: Pete comes over to Patrick’s house, and they hang out and eat either Mrs. Stump’s or Mrs. Wentz’s baking concoctions while Patrick takes half-assed stabs at his homework and a slew of poppy riffs and aggressive bass lines and smashing drums backtracks the scene. 

Patrick is thumping out the beat of a Real Friends song with one hand while he files through his handouts from Mrs. Pacheko (wicked, wicked, wicked chemistry teacher, how dare she), when Pete blurts out, “we should start a band.”

“What?” Patrick frowns, looking up.

“Start a band. You can play, like, drums, and guitar, and everything, and I…” Pete laughs, still melancholic, but not as much as it was two weeks ago. “I can fake playing bass.”

“So you’re saying we should two-man it? White Stripes without the rumored marital status?”

“I dunno,” Pete shrugs, “just…. Forget it for now. Hey, what are you doing for Halloween?”

“Handing out candy to little kids with a witch’s hat slapped on?” Patrick guesses. That’s what happened last year.

“Dude! Let’s go trick-or-treating.”

“You’re twenty-one.”

“So? We’re both short enough. We can wear bedsheets and pretend to be abnormally tall middle schoolers. We’re middle school height, right?”

Patrick snorts, but smiles. “Sure, Pete, whatever.”

 

Patrick’s hanging out with Joe during his off period on November 1st, grinning as he scarfs down funsize Twix and Milky Ways, Joe looking on jealously. 

“C’mon, man, just one, I swear I won’t continue talking about how old Jordan Pundik looks!” He complains.

Patrick feels guilty. He tosses him a Snickers.

“Phrnks,” Joe gets out, “how did you get all this, anyways?”

“Went trick-or-treating with Pete,” Patrick says.

“No way. Wentz? The dropout?” Joe asks.

“He’s nice, okay? And he needed a friend. And he gave me all my CDs, y’know.”

“Indirectly.”

“Fuck you.” Patrick scratches his knee. “He’s… I dunno. He’s Pete. He’s a friend. He gets me.”

“Gets you? Does he understand your problems or some shit?”

“You’re the worst.”

“Yeah, but what do you think about him?”

“I think…” Patrick pauses. “I think…”

And then he realizes that he can’t tell Joe what he really thinks.

“I… I think he’s a chill dude,” Patrick finishes. “I just realized I need to talk to Yates, shit, I didn’t ask him about extra credit like I meant to.”

And he feels like shit about ditching his only in-school friend, but this is a crisis, a crisis-crisis, a capital-C Crisis, one Patrick should have stamped out in Freshman year like he meant to.

 

When Pete comes over, Patrick’s mom has to let him in the house.

He finds Patrick staring at the ceiling like if he stares long enough, he’ll find the answer to every one of the universe’s problems.

“Hey, what’s up-”

“Do you think Parker Cannon would date boys if he ever got over his fucking breakup?”

“Wait, what?”

“Nevermind, fuck it, forget I ever said anything.”

Pete closes the door, and nudges Patrick. “Sit up. C’mon. C’mon. I didn’t bring snickerdoodles over for this shit.”

Patrick reluctantly sits up, grabbing one of his pillows and hugging it to his chest and grabbing a cookie. 

But when he meets Pete’s eyes, he looks vulnerable, concerned, and, most of all, understanding.

“You probably realized it, like, sometime between seventh grade and freshman year, right?” He starts, crossing his legs and tangling his fingers together. “And either you faced it then, or buried it in the back of your mind and swore to ignore that part of your brain. And is it fair if I guess the latter?”

Patrick’s mouth just hangs open, and Pete buries his head in his hands.

“God, this is embarrassing,” Pete says, “I’m sorry I’m a massive, raging homosexual.”

“I feel like I have to forgive you if I hardly know who I am,” Patrick chokes out. 

Pete looks up, his upward stare making him look so helpless. “Who… Who do you think you are?”

Patrick huffs, cracking the joints in his fingers. “Fuck if I know. Like, chicks are attractive? Dudes are attractive? Most of tumblr would bash my head in for catering to the gender binary?”

Amidst the tension, Pete laughs. “Tumblr would bash a lot of people’s heads in.”

“I… I also think you’re really attractive?”

Pete laughs, but it’s not melancholic, and neither is it entertained: it’s nervous. Patrick can see the barest of blushes playing across Pete’s cheekbones, and it makes him feel just a little less shit about himself. 

“Um… Would it… Would it be okay if I kiss you?” Pete asks.

Patrick shrugs, trying to be nonchalant - except he’s sure he’s coming off as freaked out beyond all hell - and says, shakily, “sure, why not.”

And he’s sure this is a bad idea, and Pete’s twenty-one and five years older, but their lips are touching, and Pete’s lips are smooth and a little thin and there’s a scab towards the   
center from where a split must of happened, and Patrick finds himself melting a little into it.

That is, until the cookies start sliding off the plate and onto Patrick’s carpet floors, and Pete breaks away to mutter, “oh, shit,” and make a wild dive to save them.

Patrick laughs at Pete’s determination, since it’s all he can do.

 

“One day, I’m getting out of here,” Andy mutters under his breath as he makes the coffee Patrick ordered. 

Patrick nods. “I feel you.”

“Here you go, man, take care.”

“Yeah, you too,” Patrick says, straightening his snapback and fluffing the hair in front of his face. 

As he sticks a couple of quarters into the tips bin, he looks up. “Hey, Andy, you going to see Tigers Jaw next weekend?”

“I have no one to go with,” Andy shrugs, “hey, wanna go with me?”

“Um, I was gonna go with Pete and Joe-”

“Wentz and Trohman?”

“Yeah. Um… You wanna come with us?”

Andy smiles, and it makes Patrick jump a little with surprise. “I’d love to.”

He and Patrick share a nod of understanding, broken just as Pete busts in the coffee shop, looking for Patrick. 

“Hey, what’s taking - oh, hey, Hurley! You coming to Tigers Jaw?”

“Uh, yeah, if I can buy tickets,” Andy says, nodding. 

As Patrick hands Pete his coffee, Pete smiles, wide and toothy, eyes crinkling. “Sick, dude.”

Andy’s eyes close to slits. “Sick isn’t a real word in that context, you shithole.”

Pete laughs. “See ya around, Andy.”

Patrick shrugs apologetically, mouthing ‘sorry’. Andy waves his hand in dismissal, and starts working on the next coffee order.

Pete and Patrick keep themselves as a decent, friendly distance while walking down Main Street, but the minute they turn the corner to jump into Pete’s car, Pete wraps a long, tattooed arm around Patrick’s shoulders and pulls him in, kissing the point of his cheekbone. 

“Pete, holy shit, there could be someone behind us-”

“Fuck them. Love you almost as much as I hate this town,” Pete mutters. 

Patrick rolls his eye, thinking you cliché piece of shit, but smiles, trying to ignore how he still realizes that Pete’s still hiding them the best he can.

They get into the beat up, silver Camry, and Pete looks back up at Patrick. “We’re still going into town to go look at guitars, right?”

Patrick nods. “If you still want to.”

Pete grins. “Fuck yeah.”

An autumn-leaf-covered Glenview speeds quickly into the background, replaced by the glittering bustle of Chicago, and as Patrick presses his forehead to the window, he can only think that one day, this will be for good.


End file.
